Stories from a girl with no chill.

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A Divine Donut

I’m pretty into two things in this world, Catholicism and baked goods. Every now and then these two things collide in a glorious way.

For me Sunday’s are beautiful and also awful. This particular Sunday was the loveliest. I attended mass at the Cathedral which offers massive, gorgeous paintings of Mary being the OG Wonder Woman, triumphing over a depiction of the devil like he ain’t even shit and another of her being hoisted up to the heavens by some angels who are like, “Mary you are so dope, we are so honored to hoist you”. And in the evening I relaxed at a lake with gorgeous mountain views, sipping on pineapple ciders with top notch company, watching the sun go down over the water.

However, in the back of my mind, I was reminded that Monday was approaching. Everyone can agree that Monday’s are like the tetanus shot of the week. You dread it for days, they’re usually painful, but in all reality they don’t last that long and you just need to get through them to survive. On this particular Monday, I woke up to a rejection email from a company I had at that point applied to three or four times. I also started to feel the abdominal pains of the Communist that ruins my life for a few days every month. These two things combined, along with the fact that it was the first day of a five day work week in which I would be staring endlessly at Excel sheets on a computer, paralyzed me with rage. Some people are moved to react physically when they’re mad/disappointed/crampy. But I get very indignant and refuse to move.

As background, I’m at a time in my life that is so close to perfect I can taste it. I finally feel at home in Portland, Oregon which felt for two years like it was slowly chewing on me, gearing up to spit me out. I have an adorable apartment that I actually take time to keep semi-tidy, a tiny car that I can parallel park like a boss, an incredibly sweet and caring significant other who also thinks Jesus is a homie (religious boys are harder to find in the Portland than chain restaurants and non-artisanal soap. Side note: I’m still mad there are no Chili’s here). The biggest bother at this point is my job. The job is fine, it’s in a great location and I don’t need to drive. I can’t complain too much about the lifestyle it affords me. But guys let me tell you if I have to stare at another Excel for three hours straight I WILL LOSE IT. So I’ve been trying desperately to make a major career move. I’ve been working in finance since I graduated from college and I am probably one of the last people on this earth who should be in finance. I don’t care about numbers, which you would be able to tell if you glanced at my bank account vs the amount of money I spend a week on coffee (side note: sipping on an espresso now because I take special joy in drinking from tiny coffee mugs *cheers*).

During this disaster Monday when I had the hope of a new job that I actually cared about at a company that I actually cared about ripped away from me, I was wishing I could cocoon myself in my comforter and wait until the sheets would erupt and I would emerge, a successful CEO of some extremely cool app company. I stayed in bed until 11am, weighing the pros and cons of staying home and moping the rest of the day. I texted my boyfriend and he said something along the lines of “I woke up late too, but you can still make it a good day”. I thought, “shit, fuck, he’s right. UGH. Sometimes I hate having someone to hold me accountable to the rest of society”. I got up, and went into work.

Once I was there, I couldn’t help but become the Mr. Hyde version of myself which is a combination of April Ludgate, Lucille Bluth and (probably) Jack the Ripper. I’d hear my co-worker say my name over our cubicle divider and I would respond with a loud and curt, “WHAT?” Someone would walk by my cube and I’d shoot them the “I will cut you with this letter opener if you breathe in my vicinity” look. I did not want to be there, not for a second.

About an hour before the day would end, I developed a serious craving for a Grandma cookie. If you are unaware of what that is, it is a brand of soft cookie sold in Avanti corporate markets. You grab the pre-packaged sugar bomb, scan it at an Avanti kiosk and enjoy your moment of happiness followed by hours of self-loathing. There was one problem, THE AVANTI KIOSK WAS OUT OF ORDER. I could have cried, y’all. I could have cried. I almost declared war on all industry and capitalism. I could have thrown shit. I was in a dark place. The cookies were right there but I was not allowed to take one. I also refused to spend more than a dollar on an afternoon snack so all outside baked good prospects were a no go.

The last hour of the day dragged on. My Advil wore off and the constant, stabbing pain inflicted by my suicidal uterus started to creep back. I went to the kitchen to get water so I could take more Advil and that’s when I saw it. It was like a lighthouse beacon to a lost and desperate sailor, a box of Blue Star Donuts. I thought, surely those will all be gone, it’s almost the end of the day. I walked over to the box and noticed the unattractive scraps of donuts. And then, I moved a piece of the paper covering the bottom of the box to the side and uncovered a perfect, untouched, pure and glorious glazed donut. My prayers had been answered in a very weird but fulfilling way. This one donut was a gleam of sunshine that broke through the clouds. I had let my hope lapse but the universe was right there to say, chill out, be patient, and for now, have a donut.

P.S. While I was sitting here, sipping my espresso and writing this, one of the café workers brought me a complimentary second espresso and cookie. God is good and knows my needs, y’all.